In at the Death

22

Arranging an interview with Domitius Ahenobarbus was easier said than done.

You don’t just drop in uninvited on someone who’s nephew to the Wart and the husband of Augustus’s granddaughter, and who knows exactly where that puts him on the social ladder. I’d never met the guy personally, which suited me just fine because in addition to being a four-star imperial he was a five-star bastard: short-tempered as a rhino with a migraine, arrogant as hell and with a streak of malicious cruelty a yard wide. The story went, he’d once driven over a kid on Appian Road just for the fun of hearing him scream. He’d’ve had the mother, too — so he told his pals later over dinner — but she moved at the last minute and he had to choose between them.

Not a nice man, Domitius Ahenobarbus.

So I did things properly. I had Bathyllus put on his best tunic and hernia support and sent the little bald-head over to the Palatine with strict instructions to impress. I’d wondered what to use as an excuse for the meeting and decided in the end not to bother: if the bastard was as aware of who I was and what I wanted to talk about as I thought he’d be then I’d be wasting my time wrapping things up in fancy language. Besides, whether he was a four-star imperial or not, in terms of family history the Valerii Messallae were as good as the Domitii Ahenobarbi any day of the month, so bugger him sideways and twice on the kalends.

All of which was why, next day, I found myself outside the main gate of the emperor’s palace. The Wart hadn’t lived there for years, mind, let alone stuck his boil-encrusted face inside the city’s sacred boundary-line, but Ahenobarbus and young Agrippina — there were no kids, yet — had taken over one of the wings and were doing a pretty good job of acting as stand-ins. Rumour was, the two were well-matched. By all accounts Germanicus’s daughter was as cold and calculating as her mother, with all the qualities of a first-class bitch in the making.

‘Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus to see Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus,’ I said to the door-slave.

The guy looked at me like I’d turned up selling brooms. ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

‘Of course I’ve got a fucking — ’ I caught myself. Steady, Corvinus! Gravitas, gravitas! ‘Ah…yeah. Yes, of course I have.’

He checked a wax tablet and made a tick with his stylus. ‘Ah. There you are. Very well, that seems to be in order. If you’ll come this way.’

I followed him, hitching up my formal mantle. Gods, I hate these things! Yeah, sure, they’re impressive, especially out in provinces where most of the locals make do with a loincloth or animal skins turned inside-out, depending on climate, but they impress because they’re totally impractical. Anyone who’s had to move any distance wound up in twelve feet of carefully-choreographed woollen blanket, and who isn’t a complete mental cheesecake, will agree with me. Still, you had to make sacrifices.

We went through what seemed miles of rooms and out into a central garden loud with peacocks and the sound of water from the ornamental fountain. Ahenobarbus was sitting under a trellised vine dictating to a secretary. No mantle for that guy: he was wearing a simple lounging-tunic. He looked up and frowned. He was big, red-haired — the family hadn’t got the surname Bronzebeard for nothing — and built like a bull.

Red-haired. I remembered the miniature that Rupilia had shown me. Yeah; that’s where the kid had got it from. Not from his mother at all, or not completely. And the shape of the face made sense too.

‘That’s all right, Callistus, you can go,’ Ahenobarbus said. The secretary closed the roll, tucked his pen and ink-bottle into a pouch at his belt, bowed and left. ‘Have a seat, Corvinus. Ruber, a chair.’

There was a wicker chair at the end of the loggia. The door-slave pulled it up, saw me settled and then moved off.

‘Now.’ Ahenobarbus was still frowning. ‘What can I do for you? According to your major-domo you wanted to talk about young Sextus Papinius.’

‘Yeah. That’s right.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey. I knew the boy by sight, but — ’

‘He was your son.’

Silence; long silence. The frown deepened to a scowl. ‘You know, I find that rather insulting,’ he said carefully. ‘Sextus Papinius’s father was Papinius Allenius, the ex-consul. If you’ve been listening to any other rumours then I strongly recommend in your own interests that you discount them for what they are. Complete and utter nonsense.’

‘That so, now?’ I said. ‘Me…well, I didn’t know the kid when he was alive, but I’ve seen his portrait. He had red hair and a full jaw. Sound familiar?’

‘His mother has red hair.’

‘Sure. But not the jaw. Nor does Allenius. You’ve got both.’

He stared at me like I’d crawled out from under a stone: evidently, the guy wasn’t used to being contradicted. Tough. I stared back; like I say, a Valerius Messalla’s got his own pride, and I wasn’t here for fun.

‘What do you want, exactly?’ he said. ‘Just out of interest, you understand.’

‘To know why the kid was murdered.’

His eyes flickered. ‘Papinius committed suicide.’

‘No he didn’t. Someone decoyed him to the top floor of the tenement, probably slugged him from behind and then pitched him through the window. You know anything about that?’

He stood up quickly. ‘Now you really are being insulting. I’ll ask you to leave, please.’

‘Not yet. Not until I’m done. Two questions. First: if the kid wasn’t your son then why did you have Allenius put him forward as a junior officer on the fire compensation commission?’

For a moment I didn’t think he’d answer. Then he said, through tight lips: ‘I didn’t. The suggestion — the request — was Allenius’s, I only approved the appointment. We’re old colleagues and I was happy to help his son begin his political career.’

‘Come on, pal! Allenius hadn’t had anything to do with the boy since he was born and wanted nothing to do with him then. So why should he bother calling in a valuable favour?’

‘Are you accusing me of lying? Because if so — ’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Second question, two parts. Young Papinius was being blackmailed by a guy called Mucius Soranus to the tune of fifty thousand sesterces. He borrowed the cash from a money-lender by the name of Vestorius. Just before he died he repaid the loan in full, plus the interest, sixty thousand in all. He had to get them from somewhere. My guess is that they came from you. Right or wrong, and if right then why should you pay? And what the hell did Soranus have on him to merit that much bread?’

‘Sextus Papinius’ — Ahenobarbus’s face had gone as red as his beard, and I could see his fists flexing and unflexing — ‘was taking bribes. According to Laelius Balbus — ’

‘Wrong, pal. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Also, a mistake. First off, Papinius was straight as a rule. He wouldn’t’ve taken a bribe from anyone. Second, according to Balbus he kept the bribery issue a secret between the kid and himself. So how the hell do you come to know about it?’

I thought he’d hit me — he was within spitting distance of it, and from the expression on his face hitting me was the least he’d’ve liked to do — but he turned away.

‘Ruber!’ he shouted. Then he turned back to me. ‘Get out,’ he said softly. ‘Get out now, while you can still walk, or I’ll have my slaves break your legs, arms and ribs and throw you out. And if I find that you’ve dared to make these disgusting accusations public, Valerius Corvinus, then believe me you will be very, very sorry indeed. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, standing. ‘That’s clear enough. You’ve been very informative. Thanks for your time, pal.’

He didn’t answer, just glared. I followed the silent slave to the exit.

I’d come by litter, naturally: a walk half way across Rome swathed in a formal mantle just isn’t on, especially when you have to arrive fresh, clean and sweet-smelling at the end of it. All the same, I’d done my duty now by the conventions and it was a lovely morning, far too good to be carried through the crowded streets in a curtained box. So once I was clear of the palace I told the litter-guys to stop, got out, stripped off the mantle and continued down the incline on foot.

Well, that’d been interesting. I’d made myself a serious enemy, mind, and no doubt when the blood stopped pounding in my temples I’d regret it, but all the same I wasn’t too unhappy. I’d rattled the bastard’s cage good and proper, and to good purpose: whatever Ahenobarbus’s involvement was in all this, I’d bet my last copper penny he wasn’t innocent. And I hadn’t missed the implications of that threat, either. Ahenobarbus wanted things buried, which meant there was something to bury.

So what was it? The smart money was on some sort of scam, current or previous, involving the fire commission. What it was, and how it worked, like I’d told Perilla, I hadn’t a clue, but it had to be possible. Given that, everything slipped into place, and it explained why Ahenobarbus had been nervous as a cat in an oven. Every one of my shots had gone home, that I’d swear to. Imperial the guy might be, but as long as the Wart was still on his perch getting caught with your hand seriously in the till was not a good idea whoever you were, because if there was one thing Tiberius really took exception to it was high officials on the make. And if the old emperor did hand in his feed-bowl shortly, that wouldn’t do Ahenobarbus any favours either. Brothers-in-law or not, he and Gaius were far from being bosom buddies, and that went for Rome’s next emperor and his sister, too. In spades. If rumour was to be believed, Agrippina hated Gaius’s guts, and it was mutual. Not that I blamed the lady there: family loyalty wasn’t exactly one of our crown prince’s leading features, however much he might pretend to the contrary, and cuddly and likeable were two things that the bastard wasn’t.

So no wonder Ahenobarbus was nervous. And if he was responsible for this whole boiling then it would explain a lot. Certainly he’d have the clout to put pressure on Balbus, no argument there; he’d even manage, if push came to shove, to make up a convincing case that proved young Papinius was taking bribes. Also if he’d known that a top-notcher like Domitius Ahenobarbus was behind Papinius’s death then it was no wonder that Caepio had been shitting bricks about pointing the finger.

Carsidius, mind…Carsidius was something else. He was the one bit of the puzzle that wouldn’t fit, whichever way you turned it. Carsidius worried me.

I was heading towards the Caelian and home, down Scaurus Incline. What made me look back, I don’t know — maybe just instinct — but just at that moment the crowd parted and I saw a couple of familiar faces. My stonemason chums Aponius and Pettius.

Uh-huh. Check.

I turned quickly and carried on walking. They might’ve noticed they’d been spotted, sure, but I’d managed not to make a big thing of it so maybe I was lucky. Okay, Corvinus, so let’s play this nice and gently; these were two bastards I really needed to talk to, but if it was mutual I’d be very surprised indeed. Ahead, where the incline met the flat of Caelian Valley, was seriously built-up area, with lots of tenements, shops and side alleyways. I slowed to make sure they didn’t lose me — not that I reckoned there was much chance of that —, ignored the first two openings on the right then turned the corner of the third, between a high-rise and a butcher’s shop. Then I ducked into a handy doorway and waited.

Aponius passed me first, eyes front scanning the pavement ahead. I stepped out and grabbed him.

‘Just a minute, pal,’ I said. ‘I’d like — ’

— which was as far as I got before Pettius’s shoulder slammed into my back, pitching me into one of the city’s ubiquitous bag-ladies coming the other way loaded down with half the vegetable market. She went down with a thump and a scream, scattering onions and turnips. Meanwhile, Aponius had twisted like an eel to one side and planted a fist in my ribs. It was like being slugged with a rock. I collapsed against the tenement wall gasping.

Aponius chuckled. ‘Sorry about that, Corvinus. No hard feelings, eh?’

And then he was gone. Both of them were gone, pushing their way through the gathering crowd and into the next alley.

Shit!

I started after them. A hand caught my ankle and I went arse-over-tip to the ground, landing on my sore arm. Pain lanced up.

‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing, sonny?’ the bag-lady snapped, letting the ankle go. ‘You think you own the fucking street?’

‘Uh…I’m sorry, grandma.’ I stood up, trying to hug my arm and my ribs at the same time. ‘Accident.’

‘Holy Mother, I’ll give you accident!’ She glared up at me like Allecto on a bad day. ‘That’s my Quintus’s dinner there, all over the fucking road!’

‘Ah…yeah. Yeah.’ I fumbled my belt-pouch open and took out a couple of silver pieces. ‘Look, buy him a chicken, okay?’

‘Chicken brings him out in a fucking rash!’

I pressed the money into her hand, shoved through a knot of supportive and very vociferous tunics and headed for the alleyway.

Too late. Miles too late.

Bugger.

Nothing else for it. I went home.